


Fight, Flight, Freeze

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Good Parent Martin Whitly, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Panic, Panic Attacks, Parent Martin Whitly, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: Panic rolled through him like a wildfire, amygdala lit aflame as tension crept through his muscles, tight with anticipation. There's fight or flight, and then there's freeze - and Malcolm was dead stuck in the latter, frozen solid despite the energy thrumming through him, and although the urge to run has never hit him harder than it had in that moment, he was as still as a statue.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	Fight, Flight, Freeze

Malcolm didn't think he'd ever been so scared.

Not in that moment, at least. For just this second, he could pretend this was the most terrified he'd ever been. His heart pounded a steady staccato against his ribcage, although currently it felt a little higher than that, more so like it was stuck in his throat and was threatening to make home. It made it hard to swallow, and even harder to breathe, so he found himself gasping for air as his body shook, terror freezing him in place. Which, when you had both of your hands clamped down on an active, definitely unstable, about-to-explode land mine, wasn't a bad thing. His jaw trembled as he worked it a few times, clenching and unclenching his teeth, and breathed out a shuddering breath as his hair fell in front of his face, already slick with sweat. His hands were surprisingly steady over the land mine, but he wasn't entirely sure that mattered right then, because at this point he might just drop dead before the thing exploded anyway.

Panic rolled through him like a wildfire, amygdala lit aflame as tension crept through his muscles, tight with anticipation. There's fight or flight, and then there's freeze - and Malcolm was dead stuck in the latter, frozen solid despite the energy thrumming through him, and although the urge to _run_ has never hit him harder than it had in that moment, he was as still as a statue.

Steady as one, too. He eyed his right hand with some nervousness and some disdain, equal parts irritated with the absence of his tremor in the face of certain death when he couldn't even keep it still through one of his mother's petite soirees, and far too grateful for it at the same time.

His knees ached. The weight of the vest against his shoulders felt like carrying the Earth.

Malcolm bit his lip, staring at the window, and breathed in shakily through his teeth, trying to think. He didn't have a plan. He didn't know how the hell he was going to get out of this one.

"Malcolm, my boy," Martin's voice crackled through his phone, a few inches away from the land mine and set on speaker so that Malcolm could keep both hands steady on the mine. He flinched a little and grimaced at the sound of his father's voice, and felt some of the knots in his stomach loosen at the same time with a flicker of relief upon remembering that he wasn't alone. Not really. Martin wasn't technically there in the room with him, but hearing a voice that wasn't his own - even if it had to be his father's - was better than listening to his own ragged breathing. The profiler took another breath and curled his fingers downwards a bit. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah." Malcolm hated how small his voice sounded to his own ears, and hated even more knowing full well that Martin could hear the fear behind every shuddering breath and the unmistakable trembling of his voice as he forced the words out of shaking lips that didn't seem to want to move too much. His jaw continued to wobble dangerously as he flexed it again, lips moving soundlessly for a few seconds before he managed to force out, "I haven't blown up yet."

"Oh, you're not going to blow up, son. The bomb squad is on their way, aren't they?"

Malcolm decided against telling him that waiting for help was fruitless.

Nobody ever came for him.

Not until it was too late.

"Yeah," he managed instead, finally forcing his tongue over his lips, but it didn't wet them nearly as much as he was hoping. They stuck together for a second as he shut his mouth again, but he forced them open quickly enough when breathing in through his nose proved to be an even greater challenge than breathing through his mouth. His eyes went to his hand again, still steady against the mine. He wondered over that for a second; he was talking to his father, and his tremor never ceased to rear its ugly head in the presence of Martin Whitly. Although, he supposed, he wasn't in the presence of his father at the moment - rather, he was in the presence of something he almost hated to admit was much more dangerous than the Surgeon.

And still, he knew he should hang up. Get off the phone and think of a way out of this, because he had a feeling that the bomb squad wasn't going to get there until the building was in pieces.

But he didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to _feel_ alone.

"Come now, Malcolm, keep talking," Martin coaxed, sounding almost gentle through the phone, and Malcolm bit the inside of his cheek and forced in a breath through his teeth, nodding shakily even though Martin couldn't see, and even though he didn't think he could hold up his end of the conversation right then if he tried. "Now, you said that this had to do with the Count of Monte Cristo, hm? Goodness, you were all over that book way back when. Oh, I still remember reading it to you as a bedtime story!" His father laughed, a soft, fond sound. "Now, the first one is…"

"Villefort," Malcolm breathed, clenching his jaw and swallowing. The tension didn't ease, his terror didn't fade, and his heart was still pounding hard enough against his chest that he felt like it was going to break free. "Uh, the killer, he, he carved Villefort's name on the victim's arm."

"Interesting," Martin commented. "Before or after he killed him?"

"After." Malcolm closed his eyes for a second. "He even took the time cutting his sleeve open."

Martin let out another laugh, this time sounding pleased. "So he wasn't in a rush."

"No. He enjoyed it," Malcolm murmured. "The killer, he used a flintlock pistol-"

"An _antique!_ How _romantic,_ " Martin crooned, and Malcolm fell silent with trembling lips as his father continued, "and so _intricate._ Takes quite a bit of investment, you know - to load, to fire."

"I have two," Malcolm blurted out without his own permission.

There was a pause, and then a startled chuckle. "Do you?"

Malcolm nodded, although Martin couldn't see, and sucked in a shaky breath before continuing. "I collect… weapons. Uh, murder weapons. Old ones." Martin didn't respond immediately, so Malcolm sucked in a few more lungfuls of air before he forced himself to go on. "Not so much guns as blades. I have a- a seventeenth century Japanese katana. And six axes. One of them is a seventeenth century viking battle axe," he added. "I have machetes, daggers… morningstars."

"Morningstars," Martin echoed almost fondly. "Oh, I love those things."

Malcolm let out a strained laugh through clenched teeth. Discomfort pooled in his stomach.

Martin was silent for a moment. "Well? Tell me more, my boy," he urged gently. "What else?"

Malcolm blinked a few times, eyes on the floor.

He didn't have anything better to do.

So for the next half hour, he regaled his father with descriptions of his rather extensive weapon collection. Martin kept him talking whenever he faltered, urging him on through the conversation, calm as could be and clearly with no intention of hanging up anytime soon. There was a brief pause in their talk as the guards brought Martin's food in, but once that had been settled, his father burst out with a few questions about the weapons Malcolm had told him about, and the conversation resumed. Malcolm was just in the process of telling him he actually received the viking battle axe from a killer in Jersey a while back during his FBI days. Martin seemed to get a kick out of the fact that the battle axe itself had _been_ the murder weapon said killer had chosen.

"Go big or go home, right?" Martin joked with a laugh, and Malcolm couldn't bite back a smile in time, checking on his hands nervously. Steady as a statue against the mine, not a slight tremor.

The bomb squad burst in before he knew what was happening, and though he flinched a little in surprise, he kept his hands steady over the mine. Martin went silent at once as if he'd never been on the phone to begin with, and Malcolm let some of the tension drain from his shoulders, relieved. They'd gotten there, maybe a little later than expected, but better late than never. He wouldn't deny he was shaking when they guided him out of the building, a tremor falling over him the moment his hands weren't the only things keeping a fucking bomb from exploding.

"I have to go," he managed to say into the phone, pressed against his ear now.

"That's alright, my boy," Martin replied warmly. "Keep me updated on your case, won't you?"

"Yeah." Malcolm hesitated. "... thank you." He didn't know if Martin knew what he had done. If Martin had any idea how grateful, for the first time in so long, he had been for his father's company. He didn't know if Martin knew that he'd been the only thing holding Malcolm together.

Martin's chuckle, a mixture of amusement and warmth, implied that he did. Of course he did.

"No need for thanks, son. I quite enjoyed this little talk. We should do it again sometime!"

Malcolm didn't respond. He wasn't about to make a habit of holding down land mines. And he also knew, as much as it hurt, he couldn't make a habit of casual conversations with his father.

He looked ahead for a moment, pausing. Gil was rushing toward him, JT and Dani in tow. The concern written across Gil's face brought a brief smile to his own, more out of relief than anything. Because he was okay. He was okay enough to be able to tell Gil that he was okay.

He also managed to feel a flicker of surprise, seeing JT and Dani.

They hadn't left. They'd been there the whole time.

"Goodbye, Dr. Whitly," he murmured into the phone, hanging up.

Taking a breath, he strode forward to meet his team.

Maybe he could use that vacation after all.


End file.
